


The Living are the Hearts of the Dead

by bluelamia



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Spiritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8175167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelamia/pseuds/bluelamia
Summary: A volunteer on an archeological dig in Africa has just made the find of the decade. Spoilers for Daylight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes: Originally published at Survival Instinct and FFN in 2010 where it felt a little out of its depth on account of it being a story about an original character whose life is strangely affected by a couple who died thousands of years ago. Some of the themes [implied suicidal thoughts] might upset.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> _To Canada_  
>  and all the wonderful Canadians I know

This was impossible.

She blinked. The tell-tale glint refused to disappear. She blinked again, and the brush slipped from her fingers. There were probably a thousand things she should do. Her brain couldn't think of any of them.

This wasn't possible.

"Sarah?"

She flinched and wiped sweat and hair from her forehead. The gruff voice from above was galvanizing; she straightened, her joints protesting.

"Prof? You should see this."

A trickle of earth fell, sprinkling her back. "What you got?"

She didn't look up. She sensed rather than saw or heard the presence peering over her shoulder. She winced at his sharp intake of breath.

"My god, Sarah. This is a complete—"

"No, sir. Not that." The discovery she had made was so shocking she had forgotten about the implications of just _finding_ an intact skeleton. But something else in the ground made even that unremarkable. "Look there."

Professor Renfrew dropped to his hands and knees to stare in the direction she pointed.

"What am I—" He whistled. Tiny as it was, he found the impossibility in seconds. "Christ."

He leaned closer and his demeanor changed, his face suddenly speculative. "Hmmm."

Sarah's hands shook. A flush of shame washed over her. She definitely should have called the professor over sooner. Like, perhaps, when she'd become aware she'd uncovered human remains.

But she hadn't. Was it because this was her first find? _Her_ first find?

There was something wrong. She could hear it in his hum. She hadn't done the right thing. Maybe in her haste she had ruined the dig. Maybe fate was punishing her. Professor Renfrew had every right to be disappointed. She had deliberately ignored instructions and something was off with this dig.

"Could it be a—a mistake? A hoax?"

The professor clucked.

"No point jumping to conclusions. _Any_ conclusions," he replied, handing down a camera. "Keep documenting—we can ask questions later. Just make sure you record everything. We need to assess our options for dating this site. I'll send Andrew over to help. Get him to deal with the paperwork."

She bit down on her tongue. She didn't need company—she didn't particularly want it, either—but she knew she had no choice. She was lucky he wasn't turning her site over to one of the peppy undergrads who'd come out on the dig this season. Hoax or find-of-the-century, either way she knew her section of the burial ground was in for more attention than anyone would have guessed. Her fourth season as a volunteer must count for something. That, or her sister's reputation still lingered.

"Take good care of her, Sarah."

She jerked. "Sorry?"

"Your skeleton. Take good care of her."

"Her?"

The professor smiled as he rose. "If I were a betting man..."

He nudged a ragged handbook to the lip of the grave with his foot. "See if you can work it out for yourself."

o0o

She wanted to snarl. He was only trying to be helpful, but she resented these little carrots of coercion. She didn't need help climbing out of the pit of her own making.

When he'd gone—off to terrorize the newbies—she flicked the camera on and started photographing.

Her afternoon's work had exposed much of the skeleton: skull, intact; ribs, pelvis, legs—the larger bones were easy to identify. She didn't need a college education to tell her the leg bone was connected to the hip bone. But the smaller ones ... she zoomed in between the rib cage, training the lens on the small, yellowed lumps still embedded around the vertebrae in the earth. She'd only just started excavating around them, using a brush to painstakingly dislodge the earth. Some of them would be so tiny she'd have to sieve the soil just to make sure she hadn't missed anything.

She studied the bones. She had spent hours gingerly loosening the hard earth over the rib cage, brushing it clear. In a way, it was like she was rousing this woman from a long, deep sleep, bring her back to life.

As she clicked she imagined how the body would have looked when it was laid in the ground. It was straight and flat like any modern burial. The bones of the left arm lay straight against her side, but the bones on the right told another story.

When she was laid out, her lady's right hand had been placed over her chest, her heart.

And the circle of gold had been unmistakable.

Not for the first time Sarah was glad she was just a volunteer on the site. Impossible to spend so much time with these bones and not speculate. A new voice startled her out of her reverie.

"Ho, Clarke. Renfrew says you've got something I might be interested in."

"Fuck off," she said under her breath at the intrusion. A shadow fell across her. She said, "Hi."

Andrew Ndiaye, archaeologist-in-the-making, grinned down at her. "Renfrew was positively crowing when he told me to get my ass over here."

"You should stop pissing him off then."

He laughed. "I told him this section was a waste of time. That the poor schmuck set to clearing this area would find squat."

Disdainfully she raised an eyebrow and spread her arms, presenting the scene.

"Ohhh," Andrew said in mock awe. "A skeleton. Fancy finding one of those here! I told Laura this area was a waste of time last year. Bet she's laughing now. So ... are you coming to the bar tonight?"

The segue unbalanced her. She snapped. "Do I ever?"

"Ah! But this is a special occasion." His grin broadened. "Just got word. The lab got a second confirmation—Charlie's method worked. They successfully extracted DNA from one of Eve's molars again. The results are conclusive. Renfrew's already planning his statue unveiling and portrait for the cover of _Time_."

"Congratulations," she said.

"We manage to extract DNA from a hundred and fifty thousand-year-old skeleton—the oldest human sample of DNA yet, and Mitochondrial Eve to boot—I crack a Renfrew joke, drinks are on the house and you can't even wiggle an eyebrow?"

She shrugged. She had no use for banter.

If anything, Andrew's grin grew wider still. "You used to be way more fun, you know."

When she didn't reply, he didn't expand on his observation. "So, what's this miraculous find?"

He dropped into the excavated grave. Her lip curled. He never got the message.

"That."

His reaction to her terse response was gratifying.

"Holy frick." He bent closer. "Holy, holy frick."

She withdrew when his shoulder grazed hers in his excitement. Eve's tooth was all but forgotten, a new fervor burned in his face.

"Hell, Sarah! What the frick is a gold ring doing in a stone age burial ground?"


	2. Chapter 2

" _Don't jump to conclusions."_

Stupid, stupid edict. _Don't tell me what to do_ , she answered the professor's voice. Easy for an archeologist but how did mere mortals dowse their imaginations?

It was impossible. Lying here, enjoying the luxury of the tent all to herself with nothing better to do but gaze at the canvas seams of her quarters, her mind reached out to the cold bones in the grave on the hilltop.

A full afternoon's mapping and recording the site hadn't solved the mystery of the lady with the ring. Sarah hadn't really expected it to and she knew she'd drive herself mental wondering how and when the lady got there. Renfrew favored the view she was a relatively modern burial. Perhaps a woman who met her fate accidentally? The ring probably brought him a measure of relief. He hadn't said it but, if it hadn't been for the ring, there was no way he would have allowed her to continue on without stricter oversight. It made more sense that this was a recent (or relatively recent) burial than to believe she had stumbled onto a culture that had developed metallurgy tens of thousands of years before any other known people.

_What if he's wrong?_ a sly voice whispered. _What if he's not sure. He left Andrew, didn't he? What if he left Andrew because he's having doubts. What if she is that_ old _or at least from the early Bronze Age?_

_Ha!_ Just because the archaeologists had to follow a game plan didn't mean she was bound by their methodologies and limitations. _I'm not one of you._

Who was her lady?

Renfrew's face was still speculative as Andrew delivered his preliminary report at the end of the day.

"The skeleton is in good – remarkably good – condition, if we presume its age is contemporary with the Eve site. Rocks arranged cairn-like over the body indicate deliberate placement. Gender most likely female. Cranium is virtually intact, evidence of a full or near to full set of teeth. Once I get a better look I shouldn't have any difficulty estimating a range of age at death. Sieving revealed no artifacts, no animal bones, no charcoal or plant matter but basic examination of strata demonstrates some similarities to Eve burial.

"We reliably placed Eve in the upper level of the Lower Ndutu. This new site is approximately one hundred and sixteen feet from the Eve site. But, see, here's the thing, prof–" Andrew's hand went to his cheek, wiping a smear of dirt. "If it weren't for the location we found her or the obvious signs of aging in the bones, I'd say there was no way she'd been in the ground that long. I'm dying to have a closer look at the teeth tomorrow. I'd almost swear some of them have been worked on."

The professor stroked his chin. He took his time answering. In the end he counseled scrupulous care and attention to every measurement in recording details.

"We've got a week left on site. Just keep at it. If she is a recent addition to the site, she'll give up her secrets soon enough."

After a discussion about Piltdown man, dating techniques and sample collecting, none of which interested Sarah, they'd called it a day, and she had slipped away to her tent.

Her first find. Hers. A woman. A woman carefully buried. A woman who didn't tally. A woman of mystery. A woman alone on a hill overlooking a valley of incredible beauty. How lonely she must have been. And if she were a modern burial, how strange that her final resting place should come so close to such an ancient resting ground.

Mitochondrial Eve lived about a hundred and fifty thousand years ago. Yesterday that had just been another large, meaningless number. Sarah had never been any good at recalling what dates to associate with the taxonomy of human evolution; _homo erectus? homo boisei ergaster? homo australopithecus?_ They were names that bled into one over-riding concept: a long, long time ago. As she strained to work out what that meant for her lady, Sarah chided herself for not paying more attention to her sister's lecturing.

She shuddered as her mind sifted through imagined snapshots of life in the Stone Age. Calloused hands knapping flint; tools struck from rock. Life in caves or sheltering under the branches of some savannah tree. Lithe hunters ranging prey, collectors fossicking in the growth, digging for tubers and roots.

Cultivation, writing, civilization were still a geological age away; enough time for thousands of generations of humans to be born, grow, procreate and pass on. In this climate, little need for even a fur pelt. A hard, short life lived under a blazing, fertile sun with all the unmitigated pain of life's little side effects: a bad tooth, a headache, a broken limb (what were modern trifling concerns now enough to make the everyday act of living a misery then). The uncertainty of knowing so little about the world, the capricious nature of climate and the never-ending search for subsistence – Sarah didn't envy it.

_Fuck._ Thinking about it this way made her marvel that humans had ever convinced themselves life was worth the effort. It was enough to make her silently thank God for being born in modern times.

She had to check herself. Maybe Renfrew had it right. Who was she to judge this woman's life and feel sorry for her? Hardness had to be relative. If you didn't know any better, you wouldn't miss the modern comforts of drugs and instantaneous relief.

Sarah lay on her camp bed, staring up. Her fingers laced and made steeples as her mind churned. She kept her bottle of sleeping pills rolled up in a sweater which she always had tucked under her bed. She resisted the urge to travel down that path tonight. She was almost there by herself without chemical assistance. Better to save the medication until she really needed it.

On the cusp of sleep, her mind shifted with the force of tectonic plates heaving. Her eyelids flew open but all she saw was the skeleton, tiny finger bones and the ring.

"You were loved."

Breath rasped in her chest. It hurt. She squeezed her hands. There was all the difference in the world between academic knowledge and intuition. And academic knowledge never made her breathless.

She cringed as the flap on her tent was flung wide and a shaft of intense golden sunlight pierced her eyes.

Andrew's voice filled her sanctum before she could let loose invective.

"One last chance to get your lazy ass of out of the sack and down to the bar, Clarke!"

"Fuck off."

At last her words seemed to have some effect. He was hesitant when he replied. Maybe he finally sensed he was overstepping her carefully constructed emotional barricade.

"It could be fun, you know."

"Yeah. Sure. Fun," she said, rolling on her side and curling. "Have some of that for me."

She couldn't work out why her eyes were dry. She didn't know why she was being so mean.

The light didn't shift. Andrew must still be standing in the doorway. Let him stand there. Dusk couldn't be far off, he'd be gone soon enough.

She remembered previous years; how when the dig broke for the day she and Laura would head back to their tent (Sarah had liked the look of the cabins, but Laura wouldn't have a bar of it). They'd clean up, Laura would go over her notes and make sure her site forms were filled in. Then she'd always rouse Sarah from her post-dig nap to watch the onset of dusk. Shading her eyes with one hand she would reach her palm forward like she was patting the sun.

" _Think, Sarah. That's the same sun, the same scene, people saw thousands of years ago, millions of years ago ... time – pfft – what a meaningless concept; we're all connected."_

Then they would hitch a ride with the other students and volunteers in a rusted out Toyota, down to the local bar for wicked local drinks.

How many evenings had they wasted this way? Sarah wanted nothing to do with the memories. She didn't want _memories_. This season she hadn't been out drinking once.

"Amazing what you've done with the place."

_Great_. He hadn't gone.

"I mean, it's old school. Don't see many of these old army tents anymore, but at least you've got standing room – room even for a shelf, photos, your guitar. Haven't seen that in a long time..."

He stopped and cleared his throat.

"Good night, Sarah."

"You were loved," she whispered long after the flap had fallen. Her fingers curled around her sister's tattered copy of Bass. "Who loved you? Who put your hand on your heart when they laid you down to sleep? How much was their heart breaking? They were the last to see you until me."


	3. Chapter 3

_These days Sarah spends a lot of time in her dreams waiting. It's a pattern that took root seven months ago. Her first waiting dream happened the night she left the hospice for the final time. In the waking world she had no reason to return, but for three nights - in her dreams - she sat by an empty bed, waiting. Then came the crematorium; two months waiting at the door of a wicked furnace - that had been the worst and she is still angry with Laura for it. Then there was the university. That dream replaced the crematorium after she'd gone to collect a box of Laura's things. Until Professor Renfrew's out-of-the-blue phone call ("Why don't you join us, Sarah? You've been out before, you know your way around the site ... I could always use some extra hands"), she was still dreaming of sitting on a stool in the lab - waiting. It doesn't matter that Laura never comes. Sarah is always going to be waiting. Tonight for the first time she's up at the dig ... waiting._

Joining the dig was the easiest decision she'd had to make since the funeral. Laura would have laughed at her. Her passionately godless sister would have snorted at her reasoning, would have laughed at the idea that by haunting her sister's favorite places, Sarah could chase her sister down, and call her back like Orpheus.

" _There's no such thing as God, Sarah. You'd be just as well off worshiping the flying spaghetti monster orbiting the earth in kettle. When we die, we die; the Bible got one thing right: it's just ashes to ashes, dust to dust."_

Of course, that was before The Diagnosis after which Sarah wouldn't entertain any talk at all of what or what not might lie in the Beyond and Laura, eyes narrowed, would accept this refusal silently. But before then – after their parents' deaths – Laura had never made any secret of her atheism. A decade on hadn't done much to heal that particular wound.

But even though Laura had never sugar-coated any of her beliefs, she wasn't without compassion. She always took care of Sarah. Sixteen and hurting, she'd taken control, organized their lives, pushed them both through school, got herself a scholarship, supported Sarah's decision not to go to college, cajoled her into joining her on the digs every summer, been both mother and father for her little sister. Laura's strength had kept them afloat.

Maybe Laura didn't need God because she had archeology. Maybe that was her way of reaching the dead. She sure as hell didn't need Heaven and she didn't need an afterlife. She refused to have anything to do with one. But she didn't know Sarah needed something to believe in. Didn't know her own beliefs would strand Sarah in a world bereft of meaning.

"Where have you left me, Laura?"

Sarah choked as she struggled to suck in air. Her sister was so strong in her rejection of life after death Sarah felt traitorous every time she dreamed of meeting her. And while the dreams might offer some solace and hope, she still had to contend with the possibility maybe Laura was right.

"Where does that leave me?"

Every night Sarah sat, called and waited. Hoping, begging for one last chance to connect. Sarah was convinced if she could just see Laura one more time, she would know everything was going to be fine.

"I'd plow and part the earth to bring you home, Laura." She stripped the words of their melody. Hearing it sung would have been too much. Dry sobs burned her throat.

Somewhere between one sob and another, she slept.

_She never sees herself in her dreams – like life everything is an observation, and whilst she might be at its center she is detached. She can't see herself but she senses she is tethered to the earth. Before her stretches the terraced slopes of the hill, sentinels to the plateau below._

_Tonight is a night of firsts; tonight she is not alone._

_"Laura?" she calls before she recognizes the truth: this woman is not her sister._

_She is as pale as Laura and has a similar shade of auburn hair, but she is much, much older and dressed far too fine for the dig. Laura loved cut off jeans and scuffed sneakers when she was in Africa; this woman is wearing a skirt and blouse. She gazes upon the vista in rapture. She doesn't seem aware of Sarah and when she speaks it is to no one Sarah can discern. Certainly not to Sarah herself._

_"Beautiful. Heavenly, even." When she smiles her cheeks flush. The girl is still alive in this woman._

_"I never tire of being here. My garden changes but the mountains still cast the same shadows, still bend the same light."_

_The woman pushes herself to her feet and brushes off her skirt. She's definitely not dressed for the dig - except her feet are bare. She wanders away from Sarah with no clear purpose to her path. Her right hand goes to her left arm, where her fingers encircle her wrist. The loose gold ring on her finger is unmistakable._

_The woman inhales sharply and pauses. "Something's changed," she says, casting about for a disturbance._

_She turns, puzzled. In her hands an iPod has materialized and she is examining it, an amused grimace on her face. She holds it up to her ear. "When did the singer leave the Opera House?"_

_She shakes her head and stares out in thought. When she opens her eyes she is looking directly into Sarah's. The longer she looks, the wider her eyes grow._

_"Not alive," she says. She might be talking to a specimen. "Not living." She walks away. She doesn't turn to deliver her final message. Her words bubble with joy._

_"The admiral sails the opera house."_


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey! I was listening to that."

If his night out had inflicted any damage Andrew wasn't showing it. He had beaten her to the dig that morning and was already in the grave.

She had heard him before she saw him. He had been humming. Something awful and catchy blared from his iPod. She didn't think twice about turning it off.

"I can't work with that racket." She crossed her arms and scowled down at him. Music was a distraction she didn't need.

He gave her a long look. "Since when?"

She glared back.

He shrugged and chose not to continue the conversation. Instead he took the iPod from its docking station and pulled a pair of tangled earphones from a pocket.

It was a frosty start to the morning. The sun burning off the mist would have to work extra hard to evaporate the chill between them. They continued freeing the bones, one by one, Andrew paying particular attention to the skull and mandible, and ignoring her. Let him.

They stopped around mid-morning but didn't join the rest of the dig down at the main tent. Andrew refused to take out his earbuds. An apple miraculously appeared in his hand and he took himself several feet down the slope to sit back and study the landscape. Sarah took out her thermos and notepad and drifted over to an outcrop of rock. From her vantage point she gazed over pasture land in the broad plateau below.

It looked a little different to the way it had appeared in the dream. She couldn't put her finger on the differences. As far as dreams went last night's was no more bizarre than any other she'd had recently. But it had been vivid. She let her fingers sketch idly, curious to see if they recalled the dream better than she did. When she looked down, a woman's face stared back at her. She closed the notebook with a flip.

When Andrew momentarily unplugged himself she couldn't stop herself. It was time to clear the air. Some of it, anyway. She broke their silence.

"Renfrew," she said, scuffing a clump of dirt with the toe of her shoe. "He's indulging me, isn't he?"

"Huh?" Andrew said uncouthly, still munching as he twisted to look at her. In previous years, when he made his bewildered face, it was all she could do to stave off giggles. The sun had done its job and heat was starting to radiate from the ground, yet it would be a hour or so more before he removed the woolen cap from his head. With his thick rimmed glasses and dark curly hair he reminded her a chipmunk.

"Renfrew," she said. "He's babysitting me."

Andrew accepted her tacit invitation and got up to plonk himself beside her. "What gives you that idea?"

"I'm not stupid. Renfrew's been checking up on me for months."

"Well, he was kind of fond your sister. We all were."

"Don't think I don't know why he stuck me up here. This site's eighty meters away from the real dig. My site reading skills maybe lacking, but I'd just about swear this plot doesn't even fit in the original site boundary. Laura used to talk about using unaligned systematic samples - or something like - that all the time. Even so, I'm pretty certain this wasn't what she had in mind; I should be way closer to the other excavations."

At his spluttering she stopped. "Did I say that right?"

He laughed. "Yeah. Just don't let Renfrew catch you talking like that. He might start giving you more paperwork."

The sun was much higher in the sky now. A tiny breeze brought welcome relief to her bare arms. How could he keep wearing that ridiculous cap? It was another one of his absurdities. Like his refusal to swear properly.

"Point taken," she said. "But still, I'm up here out of the way of the real work. I wasn't meant to find anything – admit it. I'm just here so Renfrew can keep an eye on me – albeit from a distance. Our lady's remains must have come as a shock to the old man."

Andrew grinned. "Frick did they ever."

"I don't need to be mollycoddled, Andrew."

He was quick to protest. "Do you see Renfrew up here now? The ever-enthusiastic Shelly Weaver is salivating at the idea he won't let someone else run your dig. Even if it's a hoax, or a Bronze Age discovery – which would be just as cool by the way - or a really strange recent burial, everyone's interested. So, maybe Renfrew didn't expect this site to reveal much – but he hasn't taken it away from you, has he?"

Sarah sipped her coffee.

"I guess. Is that what he really thinks? We've just stumbled on some random modern burial. Maybe some tribeswoman or Victorian lady explorer. A curiosity – interesting, sure – but hardly anything likely to set the world of archeology afire."

He was slow answering. "There are some peculiarities about the find. Renfrew's right to have some suspicions – but permineralization doesn't happen in bones over night and we're a long way from the answers yet."

Sarah set her cup down. "Have you thought anymore about our girl?"

"Girl? Hardly that. Supposing our lady lived more than hundred thousand years ago she likely reached a venerable age for her tribe. From her teeth and bones I'd say she was in her late forties, fifties maybe. I'll have a look at some of the fossils under the scope tonight. Might reveal something interesting. I'm already thinking she's a likely candidate for Charlie's DNA extraction process."

"So you've had some more thoughts on how long she's been here?"

"As far as I can determine the sediment covering her grave is a match for the layer covering the Eve burial site. I haven't found any evidence to contradict that. Your excellent notes record a layer of volcanic rocks laid directly over her but well below the current surface. That suggests to me those rocks were deliberately laid over her like a cairn. The passage of time took care to make sure she was well covered with volcanic ash. Her site's been incredibly well protected from the elements and environmental degradation."

"But she has lots of modern characteristics, doesn't she? The size of her skull, her teeth, her overall proportions..."

"Wow." Was that respect in his glance? "You do know more than you let on, don't you? Yes. She exhibits characteristics different to, say, the Herto find in Ethiopia. The adult skulls reconstructed from that site are anatomically _homo sapiens sapiens_ – but larger than now. Those guys had big heads. But don't forget – Eve has a number of characteristics which were also much more modern-like than the Herto specimens and we've dated them to within several thousand years of each other."

Sarah drained the rest of her drink then toyed with her empty cup.

"But a lot of things don't make sense about this find, do they?"

"Not yet."

"Don't you think it's strange she's up here all by herself?"

"How do you know she's all by-"

Their eyes met.

Andrew scrambled to his feet and surveyed the ground around their dig. "Alright, captain. You're steering this ship. Where next?"

"Whoa." She stumbled and had to put a hand out to steady herself. She shook her head as if she were loosening errant thoughts. "You just reminded me of something I dreamed last night."

She outlined the dream and the woman's bizarre motion with her hand and wrist. She left out the bit about being dead.

"She said something about an admiral. You said captain and..." she finished lamely.

Andrew made a face. "Interesting."

It was hard to get a read on his meaning. At least he hadn't openly laughed at her. Sarah straightened. This was the card dealt to her, she might as well play with it. She strode back to the dig, analyzing the ground.

"There," she said, pointing. She looked at him. "Do go on. You think my dream was stupid."

Andrew assessed the site she indicated.

"I didn't say stupid. To her right?" He looked to her for confirmation. "Did I say stupid?"

"That's where I'd want him to be – if I were her."

"Your sister'd have your ass if she heard you talking like that. This is a real live archeological site, remember – we archeologists have worked hard on our steely scientific exteriors just to be taken seriously in hard science circles. When you joined this excavation you took an oath to uphold the archeology way of life. There's a reason why psychics and psychologists are the natural enemies of us Indiana Jones types."

She made a dismissive noise. "Sue me." Then she favored him with a smirk. "Shall we tell Renfrew or just surprise him?"

Andrew's expression was evil. "Surprise is good for the soul."

He went on, more serious. "You're determined to do this? You're not just feeling a bit greedy? You've had the taste of one skeleton, now you want another?"

"Gross." She swatted him on the arm.

"Okay – just making sure you were sure. But just so we're clear on this, you do know the woman in your dream wasn't our lady? Not in dress, mannerism, culture, race – not in anything. And you do know there's a good possibility we'll find nothing?"

Sarah grinned. "My sister didn't get _all_ the smarts in our family. I know the brain looks for familiar patterns to translate subconscious thought to conscious awareness. The lady in my dream was my brain telling me how to unlock the secrets – the real secrets of this grave – that's all. I'm sure of it."

She was lying.

_Tonight she's standing by the cairn. At her side, the woman sits, running her fingers through the grass slowly. She seems far away._

_Eventually when she looks up at Sarah, the iPod is back in her hand. She stares at it, her consternation obvious. Her eyebrows knit as she pokes and shakes it. When the screen blinks, her face brightens and she lets out a quiet "Ahhhh." She peers close to examine the player._

_"'Lay me to sleep in this bed, soft and silent I am free.' Okay. That's start," she says. She reads on in curiosity, as though there is meaning she has to work to decipher._

_"'Come back to life as I rest, let the night bend over me. This is not the world I know - this wind blows with a strange sense. I watch my garden grow. Dark and low, it's body bent.'"_

_She purses her lips. "Well, that's certainly true. But is this me or you? Or someone close to you ... What else?" She touches the iPod's screen._

_"'I dream I sink to the depths, watch the light above disappear. I wake with fear in my chest and feel strangers in the air. This is not the world I know - this wind blows with a strange sense.'"_

_Her eyes go distant again, her thoughts impossible to guess._

_"This could have been me, you know._ _This is very confusing. What is it you really want to say? Where is it you really want to go? You have to find some way to tell us."_

_She tugs so quickly on Sarah's hand, Sarah's knees give out. The sky enveloping them blackens and Sarah falls to the earth, her head spinning like the constellations revolving about her. She can't stop the nighttime carousel, not even for her roiling stomach._

_It's too dark to see and all she can hear is the wind and a faraway voice._

Tossed violently out of sleep, Sarah rolled off her camp bed and ran to the tent flap, her hands blindly snatching at the mosquito net zip. Outside she doubled over, retching and cursing whatever she'd eaten to make her feel so nauseous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from _Garden_ by Anna Coddington from _Fly My Pretties: A Story_. Lyrics unless otherwise indicated are contained in single quote marks. They are used without permission. Anyone willing to help the author appease her guilty, lyric-pilfering conscience is encouraged to turn to Youtube or and support the artists by giving them a listen or two. No knowledge of songs is required to understand the story.


	5. Chapter 5

Andrew wouldn't let Sarah cut corners with the admiral's grave. (He also wouldn't let her call it the admiral's grave, although the name was already fixed in her mind.)

Even though there was less than a week left of the dig, he was particular in pegging out the extension to their hilltop site.

He occasionally muttered things under his breath about sloppy site practices coming back to haunt him.

Sarah didn't tell him about her second dream; she could barely contain her desire to rip into the earth. It consumed her and she didn't care. This was the closest to life she'd felt in months.

But she also discovered a new conflict in her head; although she was desperate to know what the earth was hiding, she kept finding little reasons to delay the final removal of the woman's bones.

Bent over the grass, heaving the previous night, she had woken with an uncomfortable awareness that what she was doing might be sacrilegious. What if the lady did not want to be moved? In her dream the woman's clothes certainly looked out of place and she certainly wasn't native to the area, but she had seemed comfortable – at home, almost. What if she had chosen this to be her final resting spot especially? What right did Sarah have to remove her? And if they did find the admiral ... Well – what right did they have to separate them? No. The woman would stay there until Sarah knew one way or the other.

They couldn't really keep their plan from Renfrew, but after some fast talking by Andrew, the professor agreed to allow them to proceed.

They whooped, squealed and screamed (okay, Sarah whooped, squealed and screamed) when they encountered another layer of carefully arranged chunks of volcanic rock.

Their movements after that were precise and particular. Removing the rocks which were embedded in the ground became almost ritualistic. After all, the rocks were also part of the story, telling something about the culture of the people who mourned these dead.

They found the admiral precisely on a level with the lady, about two feet down.

Sarah had no doubt the remains were male. Andrew had stared in disapproval when she first used the masculine pronoun. She didn't care. Her belief was unshakeable; she knew she would be proven right.

The afternoon sun was sinking when Andrew hissed. "Found something," he said, when she looked up.

He was working on the left side of the skeleton. Unlike the woman, his arms had been arranged at his sides. Andrew was brushing dirt away from what he believed was the skeleton's ulna.

Sarah's heartbeat quickened. "Is that...?"

"Silver or silver alloy? I think so."

She stared at the band. First a ring, now this?

"Any sign of a ring?" she asked.

She masked her disappointment when he answered no.

"None on this side, either," she said when he returned the question.

Andrew must have detected the catch in her voice.

"Gold, silver - you're thinking in your own terms of reference. We don't know enough about their culture to establish any significance to their adornments. What I mean is: we don't know if these metals had value or currency to these people; we can't assume our symbolism was shared by them."

She gently scrapped away some dirt from the bone she was working on. She could at least pretend a clinical facade. Andrew didn't buy it.

"Come on. You were thinking ring, marriage, the remnants of an eternal love..."

It was very annoying when he poked fun at her. She glared at him. "So what if I was? What's so wrong with trying to humanize things on a dig? We're picking over their bones for Christ's sake. It doesn't hurt to try and imagine a life for them. Besides. Imagination has to have a place in archeology. I remember Laura talking about wind chimes found at a site in Thailand once - only it took you guys years to work out they actually were wind chimes because all they found was shells with holes drilled in their centers and no evidence of string to hold them together. The archeologists had no idea until a volunteer came back from a trip to a market one day and said they reminded her of something."

"Wind chimes were a good guess ... but can you say for certain they really were wind chimes? Ideas can be dangerous things; imagination can be lethally seductive," Andrew said innocently.

"It was as good a guess as any."

"That's all some parts of archeology are. A good guess – but you have to be able to set robust parameters you can use to define 'good'."

The discovery of a second adult on the hilltop upset Renfrew for about five minutes. Five minutes later his curiosity had overcome his concern and he decamped from the main dig and turned up on the ridge with three volunteers and a determination to solve the mystery of the "oddities" as he'd started calling them.

The silver bangle around the man's wrist (even Andrew couldn't deny the skeleton was male now) proved to be an incomplete circle, terminating in two silver knobs.

That had Renfrew on cell phone for forty-five minutes discussing modern tribal metallurgy techniques with an ethnologist in Cairo.

Sarah tried not to be insulted when the volunteers re-sifted the fill she had removed from the lady's grave. She felt vindicated when they came up empty-handed.

But whereas the lady's grave had only one artifact – the ring – the admiral's was more generous. Sarah found the first surprise concealed in the clutch of his right hand bones.

It wasn't the ring she'd hoped for. In fact, it was impossible to tell what it was. As she made delicate movements to dislodge the earth caked around the object, her nerve got the better of her.

"I think it's another metal object," she told Andrew and Renfrew. "But it feels so delicate I don't want to handle it."

The metal, a long time in the ground, was almost organic in appearance, its surface rough and whorled like fungal bark.

The item, whatever it was, was photographed, in situ then carefully extracted. It was taken to a tent where a grad student specializing in conservation would assess it and decide how to clean it.

When Sarah collapsed on her bed at the end of the day she was unprepared for the whirlpool of feelings she confronted within herself. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so emotionally exhausted.

It had hurt, she realized, to separate the object from the bones. It was incomprehensible to her how long he'd treasured it. Even in death he had clung on to it. If it were metal, as she suspected, it was not gold or silver, but something more vulnerable to corrosives in the soil. His clasp had probably given it some protection but it was still fragile. Whatever it was, it must have been important and she had nearly cried when she watched Andrew carry it away.

The quiet she had enjoyed early in the dig season had been eroded with more people coming and going from her site than she would have wanted. It was hard to feel resentful; the archeologists were buoyant in their enthusiasm. They were in their element. Laura would have loved it.

Laura would have loved this dig – the mystery, the excitement, the need for painstaking organization – it was almost unfair her sister wasn't here.

Sarah stifled a sob. It wasn't fair. Good things had happened today but the measure of comfort they bestowed on her was fleeting. None of them mattered. All she had to do was think of her sister and she was overcome again.

_Actually, by the third night Sarah knows even her dreams have been overcome._

_The jukebox doesn't explain why it's in the middle of the stage. The couple sat at its base don't explain themselves either. They don't need to. It's the lady again and - Sarah experiences dream excitement – the admiral ... it has to be. She would know him even without the unbuttoned uniform. They're chuckling amidst piles of old records strewn about them._

_Sarah thinks they're all in a theater of some sort, the kind you'd visit to see an orchestra or opera._

_"Do you know what it is?" The admiral places a hand on the jukebox._

_"A lost soul, maybe," the lady replies._

_The admiral nods slowly. "If it is one of Hera's, it's a bit of throw back to the other side of the family, wouldn't you say? Do you think it's been boxed? Is that the problem?"_

_"I don't know what to think," she says. "But if it is one of those, why's it stuck itself to us? Surely there are better candidates in our vicinity? There's got to be a clue here." She waves her hand over the records._

_Sarah is their only audience. It's funny she doesn't feel like an intruder; their conversation is making perfect sense right now, but she has the feeling if she's asked to explain it when she wakes up, she'll be stumped._

_"Here's one," the lady says, reaching out while maintaining her ladylike demeanor and despite the drag she's just taken on the cigarette between her fingers. "_ If You Could Read My Mind _." She snorts. "That's apt. Who knew talking to yourself could be so difficult?"_

_Instantly the jukebox lights up. Sarah is bemused when a mustached Gordon Lightfoot steps out from behind the box. The couple don't seem to notice._

_"Dance with me?" the lady says, laughing and pulling the admiral to his feet. He swings her about, as gently as the melody, and they glide across the floorboards, oblivious to the singer serenading the theater._

_"'If you could read my mind, love, what a tale my thoughts could tell. Just like an old time movie about a ghost from a wishing well. In a castle dark or a fortress strong with chains upon my feet...'"_

_"'You know that ghost is me. And I will never be set free as long as I'm a ghost you can't see.'"_

_Listening to the singer, Sarah feels her heart melt. She's forgotten how lush, how heartbreaking a beautiful song can be, how she has lost herself a thousands times before in this particular song. The dancers never miss a step._

_She misses music but it doesn't taste the same anymore. This will be another regret when she wakes up._

_"'If I could read your mind love, what a tale your thoughts could tell. Just like a paperback novel, the kind the drug stores sell. When you reach the part where the heartaches come, the hero would be me: but heroes often fail.'"_

_The lady buries her head in the admiral's shoulder to smoother tiny peals of laughter. Sarah is jealous until the lady lifts her head and Sarah sees her eyes are wet._

_"'You won't read that book again because the ending's just too hard to take.'"_

_Sarah's perspective shifts; she feels bodiless in her own dream, like she's smoke wafting. She finds herself watching four more Gordon Lightfoots clones – each with a guitar – emerge from behind the jukebox. They harmonize sublimely._

_The dancers are a swirl of color and energy. An old, forgotten longing is woken in her. Wasn't there a time once when she was part of this dance? When she would have been center-stage?_

_"'A movie queen - but play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me.'"_

_The admiral's smile is wide as he sweeps the lady back into his arms._

_Sarah is beginning to resent the obviousness of her subconscious. The scene is going to dissolve before her eyes soon, she knows. She doesn't know if she wants to hold on to this dream or sneer in derision._

_"'If you read between the lines, you'll know that I'm just trying to understand the feeling that you lack.'"_

_There might be no-on else in the world to the dancers but the five Gordons stare soulfully up to the Gods and when Sarah's gaze follows theirs her heart hammers wildly against her chest. Someone else is watching them, someone too bright to look at, someone creating a silhouette of light._

_"'I don't know where we went wrong, but the feeling's gone and I just can't get it back.'"_

_The music screeches as it halts and the lady's head whips around. Her eyes narrow when she looks up._

The discomfort of a soggy pillow was enough to wake Sarah up. Her cheeks flushed; even with no-one to witness her drool, she still felt the loss of control keenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from _If You Could Read My Mind_ by Gordon Lightfoot. At the risk of causing offense the 90s remade version of this song is dreadful. I couldn't believe how beautiful the original was once I found it. I prefer the album version but there's something terrific about a live performance watch?v=Ta0a3DFUU0Y &feature=related


	6. Chapter 6

By the end of the fourth day Renfrew looked like he couldn't handle another shock.

While Andrew and Sarah prepared to remove the admiral and the lady from their not-so-final resting places (Sarah had to mask her distaste for the task), the other volunteers were going over their work with the professor.

"There was a bit more to pick over from the male's grave, Prof. Have a look at these."

Sarah leaned back to stretch the tight muscles in her back. She had less than a day left to reconcile herself to this grave desecration.

She'd been on too many digs to find skeletons anything but fascinating – and all with their own Sarah-ascribed personalities. This one looks grumpy, that one's definitely a bit cheeky, occasionally one looks woebegone, or freakish, or terrified, like their last thoughts hadn't been good and they'd gone into the ground groaning and protesting; Sarah had been personalizing skeletons for years. This couple were complete, perfectly aligned but for the slight inclination of the admiral's head and the hand he had stretched out to the lady. If bones could emote joy she imagined that was what was radiating from their resting place.

She spread her fingers and waggled them. Underneath the layers of flesh, covered in sinew and muscle, this was all she was too.

_We're all skeletons in the end_. Too late. As soon as she had the thought, a click went off in her head; this was a brain-mine about to explode unpleasantly.

She took evasive action.

_Don't think. Don't think!_ She screamed silently, desperately focusing elsewhere. She clung to the lifeline of a volunteer's voice above her.

"We only found four, Professor. If there were traces of anymore, we didn't pick them up."

Sarah refused to move; she forced herself to focus on the voice; when she felt it safe - felt she han vanished a dangerous thought from her mind, she peeked over the top of the excavation. The volunteer held out a square-framed sieve. Renfrew's mouth was opening and closing like a guppy.

"I don't believe it," he said when he finally decided to speak.

"What is it, Professor Renfrew?" The volunteer looked worried. Sarah didn't blame him. She had the impression the professor was unhappy. Deep creases had appeared in his forehead.

"I've seen something like this before."

"Professor?"

"Andrew?" Renfrew called. His hand had gone to his chin, a classic 'Renfrew distracted' pose. "Andrew?"

Her companion had been absorbed in his task. He threw a startled glance up at Sarah and she tipped her head in Renfrew's direction.

Andrew hoisted himself out of the excavation. "Something up, Prof?"

The professor put on his poker face. "What do you make of these?"

As he examined the contents of the sieve, Andrew breathed in sharply. "Eve..."

Renfrew nodded.

"Some of the items from last year's dig still have to be cleaned and cataloged. The Eve burial was a richer grave site than either of these. Most of the items taken from her grave are stoneware – no pottery ... but some of the items are still being worked on. These shapes look similar."

Renfrew chewed a nail. He was silent for a beat, then two.

"What do they look like to you?" he asked solicitously. The volunteer's eyes bulged.

"Well–" Sarah didn't blame him for his strained squawk. "They kind of remind me of buttons – like, maybe brass buttons? Or badges – pins? This is definitely a straight edge here..."

"Hmmm." Renfrew wasn't giving much away.

Sarah shivered.

Eve.

Eve was somehow connected to the lady and the admiral. And, dumbstruck, she realized something else: _Eve connects us all. We are all connected_.

The thought was strong in her mind as she lay back to sleep.

_The admiral is collecting flowers outside a cabin. He's definitely the admiral and he's definitely picking small blooms. He's clutching a bunch of tiny wildflowers and he bends to pluck more._

_Above him a white bird wheels on a thermal, rising and plunging joyfully_.

_Sarah looks around expecting the lady but there's no-one else to be seen. There is, however, the cairn and it breaks her heart. She's seen these things before. But beneath the ache, something darker is seething: could it be ... envy? He never left here, never left_ her _._ _She's convinced this is the truth. He buried her. Home truly is where the heart is. Sarah is not sure where her home is._

_The admiral – he looks stern – arranges the flowers reverently by two crossed sticks. Then he is sitting and an iPod appears in his hands._

_"Laura told me how to work this thing," he says cheerfully. He holds it in the manner of one perusing a book. He reads._

_"'Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me. The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality. Error 404, page can not be found. End of line...'"_

_He glowers._

_"What the fra- ... piece of crap," he says, shaking the player._

_He stops and looks up. He's no longer reading from a script when he speaks._

_"Laura says if you won't talk, perhaps you'd like to listen. Since you've met me here, I thought I'd tell you about this place."_

_The admiral doesn't know who he's talking to or where Sarah is because when he addresses the dream space, he looks about and does not fixate in any one direction. But when his eyes settle on the cairn, she knows he's not really talking to her, not anymore._

_"This journey was long. We paid our passage in blood. We arrived with our backs broken and our spirits spent. No trumpets sounded any welcome; we limped into port, hopeful only of sanctuary and too shattered to express joy when we found it. We set sail a fleet of children; the sea aged us, it swallowed our innocence, drowned our families, and spat us out wasted and wearied and bent. We lost ourselves in an ocean of stars, but the stars were not all unkind and when we were most lost we saw miracles. You were a miracle. Your strength was the compass to which we tacked our hopes. When I heard you on the bridge first I thought you were saying 'flee', but I misunderstood; you had really commanded us to fly, and you had to wait patiently for me to catch up with you. Even when you faltered and suffered a blow crueler than I thought you could endure, when you doubted yourself and burnt all the charts that had guided you - that you had sunk your faith in - even then you would not shrink from the last rally. In the face of the final battle, you rose: a phoenix from the waves._

_"They said you would not live to enter the new world, but when we sighted landfall I did not see you flinch or turn away. You were brave, love. You were a phoenix. When I would have you fight just a while longer, a day more, a phase of this world's moon, you were already settling for peace. Death was how we paid for the comfort of knowing we were truly home._

_"Our journey was long. We hemorrhaged our inherited pride, the trappings and splendor of a fading empire, the ease with which we centered ourselves in our universe. But there are things I know you did not lose: you did not lose your resolve; you did not lose your devotion; you did not lose your grace. And there were things I could not – would not – let you lose: your honor was upheld, your heart and soul preserved. And things I know you found and which could never be taken from you: peace of accendence, spirit of bravery, knowledge of love._

_"How cruel was it: we sailed together to the gates of Eden, and I felt your grasp slip through my fingers. No loss measures itself greater or more profound._

_"Grief captures a soul in an endless hurricane. Grief is a journey robbed of a destination. But you, love, are my eye of the storm. What more could I do with this life, since you had given it me, than live in the eye and live as best as I was able? It hurt. This life hurt – but I would not waste one new dawn."_

_The admiral stops and gazes ahead. He lifts the iPod up to shake it. "Does this thing have a heart? Does it have anything better to say?" Lowering his head, a smile breaks over his face and he reads._

_"'There's a tear in my eye, and an ocean of swallowed pride; there's a heart here that beats like a drum as I sing the waters by. Ties that comfort, ties that bind. There's a temple in my mind with an altar set for you - so you know my word is true. And I will not let you down. I will not let you down. That's for sure.'"_

_His hands fall to his sides. "Love is a gentler binding than pain. Look."_

_Above them the white bird screams. "Would he thank you if you tied around his neck a fine, synthetic rope which you had tethered to a tree?"_

_Sarah is horrified: at his words a fine rope creeps from vines growing at the head of cairn. It insinuates itself about the bird's neck, it undulates like a hypnotized cobra as the bird circles, in dips and soars._

_"Maybe he would thank you – even though the rope be made of your pain – if his love for you was greater than all other loves._

_"But better_ his love _is the rope. A gentler rope which cannot tighten around his neck."_

_The vine dissolves, like electricity fraying._

_"No matter where he goes or how far he ranges, you are tied. He ties something of you to him."_

_Sarah finds herself edging to the admiral's shoulder and she thinks he can hear her although she has no body to make any sound._

_"I would not waste a day. With two hearts protecting me I grew stronger. Strong enough to watch our children pass fully into this world, strong enough to deal with the difficulty of assimilation, the pain that must accompany joy for joy to have any value, the frustration of thwarted efforts, strong enough to know surrender is not the same as giving in."_

_He rounds on her. "Do you understand? Should I speak in a language you understand?" He extends the iPod but Sarah has no hands to take it. He reads: "'But hope, love, is a river that flows from these stone walls into an ocean we have never seen. Hope is the one thing we have never lost – though we are tired from the old wars: 404 error, page not found. Error, error, error.'"_

_He stops again, scowling at the thing in his hand. He curses under his breath, then says more loudly, "This is a frakking waste of time."_

_He tosses the iPod in the air and it goes sailing in an arc across the valley. It blazes like a shooting star ... and vanishes. The admiral grins and wipes an eye._

_"The living are the hearts of the dead, love."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies: music and poetry over-saturate this chapter. Sorry if that makes it a bit tedious.  
>  _Because I Could Not Stop For Love_ by Emily Dickinson; _I Will Not Let You Down_ by SJD (sung by Don McGlashan); _River_ by Susan McKeown and the Chanting House


	7. Chapter 7

Someone buried the admiral.

Of course someone buried the admiral – after all, Sarah and Andrew had found him in a carefully prepared and undisturbed grave. But he didn't get there by himself, and the realization someone else must have buried him triggered a cascade of images in Sarah's mind while she was packing up her bags.

_The lady is buried by the admiral, who is buried by someone else, who is buried by someone else, who is buried by someone else, who is buried by someone else, who capsizes in the Nile and is eaten by crocodiles._ The last part of the image was pure Laura.

Laura was not eaten by a crocodile – or maybe she was. An internal crocodile: one that lay in wait and struck when she and Sarah least expected.

It wasn't fair, Sarah thought as she tidied up. She had had no chance to prepare for a stealth attack at so young an age. Their parents' death had been the result of pilot error. That had been unfair, too, but for entirely different reasons. Flying had inherent risks. So too did life apparently.

At first the doctors had been positive about Laura's prognosis. But when her body refused to respond to treatment, they didn't backtrack or apologize for inflating Laura or Sarah's hopes. One day, Laura was waging a one-woman war on cancer by day and marking first year anthropology papers by night; the next she was told she's terminal and does she have all her affairs [read: Sarah's] in order?

By calendar, the time separating "The Diagnosis" from Sarah's first waiting dream was three months, one week and three days. Sarah trusted the calendar – but only because of its track record. In truth she had trouble remembering any of those three months. For all she knew three months could really have been just one awful, long day. Or perhaps one long awful night. Or a year of awful long days and nights. Time or delineations of time had been irrelevant.

Laura had had to make hard decisions. Sarah remembered making only one.

It started innocuously enough. Rehearsal had been scrapped and she'd taken an extra shift at the restaurant when another waitress called in sick.

It was around midnight. She was brimming with unsung song and a lucrative evening of tips when Laura had ambushed her.

Laura was sitting at the kitchen table, a pile of leaflets stacked neatly in front of her, when Sarah let herself into their apartment.

" _Hey, sis. Save me any leftovers?"_ Sarah had asked as per routine, bursting through the door with her usual high spirits.

" _I'm going to be cremated, Sarah. I'd like my ashes scattered some place you feel appropriate."_

Sarah's bag had crashed to the floor.

" _Don't be silly. You're not dying anytime soon."_

Laura had sighed. Then she had amended her will – only Sarah didn't learn that part until later. It brought about the hardest decision she'd ever faced. Actually, it had been the only hard decision she had faced because Laura had beaten her to everything else.

Sarah remembered staring at the lawyer – a friend of Laura's – as they discussed "arrangements". He wasn't unkind, just very, very matter-of-fact.

" _In the end, Sarah, it's your decision. This was your sister's wish but you get some say as well."_

She'd had to close her eyes when she signed the papers committing her sister's body to cremation.

When she said she would compromise, she felt she'd done the most adult thing she could bring herself to do.

Buying one's first urn definitely seemed like a adult sort of action. She bought the urn because the idea of letting loose those ashes was abhorrent – and frightening. Like being swept overboard into a lonely ocean – miles of sea to the north, to the south, to the east, to the west and miles and miles going down beneath her. The ashes would be free to escape anywhere – and she would be alone.

The dig was over. As Sarah packed her bags (which were always off the scale when she checked them in), she turned the urn in her hand. Traveling with it was a risk she never thought about. She suspected there might be rules about transporting ashes but there was no way she'd go anywhere without the urn.

A number of artifacts collected during the excavation season had been carefully packed into special crates; among the cargo were the admiral and the lady, the ring, the bracelet and the buttons. The bones and teeth would undergo a variety of dating procedures and traces of the metals would be subjected to tests to ascertain element composition and origin (if it could be determined). She grimaced as she prayed the couple wouldn't be unsettled by their move. She was still uneasy about their removal. In this line of work, however, she knew better than to say anything.

Sarah zipped her last bag and dragged it from the tent to the pick-up point. She would strike the tent later. In the meantime she found herself uncertain how to spend her last afternoon on the dig. This evening she'd be flying out of Tanzania, uncertain of the future she faced.

Without thought, she wandered restlessly along the familiar track toward the hilltop. She couldn't define her mood, couldn't isolated it to say if what she was feeling was a good thing or a bad thing. If she had to assign a color to her mood she would have said gray. It wasn't an unfamiliar emotional landscape – she'd felt this way when she turned up at camp several weeks ago – so she knew she could cope with it. Tears burnt the back of her throat though when she realized she wasn't sure she wanted to go on like this, on this relentless merry-go-round of just existing.

She was about to turn back when her ears picked out a sibilant whisper in the grass. She knelt down searching in the scratchy thicket and found what she was looking for in seconds. God knew how loud Andrew played his iPod. Music hissed from the tiny earphones loud enough for her to make out the lyrics.

" _Hope is a river that flows from these stone walls into an ocean we have never seen."_

A rustle behind her sounded his approach.

"Hey! You found it! No, wait-" Andrew's eyebrows scrunched in thought as he listened. "It can't be mine. I don't know that song."

"It's called _River_ ," she said absently, handing over the iPod and thinking little of the exchange. "It is yours. It's got all your dirty marks on it."

She started down the slope.

"Sarah? Sarah, wait!"

She couldn't stop, she couldn't listen; she could hear that terrible, terrible beautiful music. Her pace quicken until she was flying down the hill. She couldn't go back. It was too painful.


	8. Chapter 8

Sarah wasn't prepared for the dig to end.

As she exited the baggage collection area at Pearson Airport, she halted and a man trundling a suitcase bumped her shoulder.

He apologized, she apologized and they both went their separate ways. She resumed her walk in a stupor, passing through a sea of reunions. A few people waved tour flags and boards with names hastily penned on them. Once upon a time – a very long time ago – she had loved visiting airports with their energy and the ever-present air of anticipation and excitement, the bustle of people journeying or homecoming; she had loved breathing in the air.

Today her first steps beyond the terminal were into driving rain and an unseasonably cool wind.

She was barely conscious of where she was going, so that when she came face to face with the door of her apartment and stood with her door key in her hand she felt she had just been painfully woken from one of the best dreams of her life. She was bereft.

As she shut herself in she couldn't honestly say when she might emerge again.

The pounding on her door became impossible to ignore. She roused herself from her couch. The movement was too much for her brain and everything went black as her head spun.

"Come on, Sarah. Open up!"

Sarah pulled herself up and cinched the dressing gown more tightly at her waist. There was nothing she could do about her hair or face. Not that any of that mattered. She padded past the fridge to the door.

"Andrew," she said flatly when she swung it back. The light hurt her eyes and she squinted at him. A shadow of – something – passed over his face.

He spoke in a rush. "The professor's been trying to reach you for days. He started fretting when the line got disconnected."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "I keep forgetting about that."

She regarded him somberly. He had a new ridiculous cap pulled tight over his skull. It was hardly necessary now the blossoms were out. When she didn't invite him in he took matters into his own hands. He sidestepped into her kitchen. What he thought of the plates and pots haphazardly stacked in the sink and on the bench he kept to himself. Sarah put herself in front of the counter and crossed her arms.

"Renfrew thought you'd want to know."

"Know what?"

"Some of the results from the dig are back."

She shook her head, confused. "The dig? The dig was ages ago."

"Nine months ago," he replied pointedly. "Don't you ever check your email?"

She waved off his irritation. "You came all the way here just to tell me about the dig?"

Andrew took one step into her living room. Her apartment wasn't large. He settled himself in a chair.

"She was dying – probably died – from complications of cancer."

Sarah swallowed rising guilt. She grabbed at the counter at her back for support. It was too late to tell Andrew to shut up. Memories she had tried to suppress jumped to the head of the queue, forcing her to confront her betrayal.

"Her bones are riddled with it. She was somewhere in her fifties but she can't have had a hard life. Her death notwithstanding, she appears to have had no major problems. Her teeth weren't ground down the way Eve's were. Not the way you'd expect someone eating a diet of unrefined foods. Actually, her teeth were beautiful. We're still arguing over whether they were naturally aligned or if..."

Here he looked uncomfortable, as if he were contemplating something repugnant.

"There's little evidence she had any signs of aging like arthritis. No obvious skeletal deformities. She's related to Eve; it's not a close genetic relationship – but they share some common genetic markers. She's related to us – but our relationship is even more distant. If Eve is our grandmother, the woman is our half great-aunt twice removed, maybe.

"We couldn't carbon date her. She fell well outside of dating ranges. She's not Bronze Age. We tried a couple of other things; the dates generated a range between a hundred and sixty-five thousand years and a hundred and forty thousands years BP. What with the genetic data Charlie's team extracted, I'd say it's safe to assume she's older than Eve, but not by much – the data's a bit confusing. And the ring's still got people scratching their heads. The gold's from an unknown source; same as the silver. Then there's the fact the ring – if that's what it is – is, was probably too big for her..."

Sarah lowered herself onto her couch, digesting the information. Guilt be damned, knowledge could be intoxicating; she had to hear more about the couple.

"And the admiral?"

She wanted to slap Andrew for his sly smile.

"Was probably an old softy."

She starred an explanation out of him. He meted out his facts slowly.

"In his seventies probably, bone measurements closest to modern Caucasoid ratios. Not as well preserved as the lady. He probably walked with a limp at the end of his life, and he had arthritis in most of his major joints. There's even evidence of projectile damage to some of his ribs. Whatever it was, it happened while he was alive – the bones had time to heal. Again, evidence of a reasonably soft diet. This man never starved for a meal or was never deficient in essential minerals at any time in his life, but he didn't seem to have to work hard for a meal either. His bones don't give us any clue to how he died."

Sarah's tongue clicked in frustration. "You said he was a softy?"

His eyes twinkled. "That thing in his hand? Have you thought anymore about it?"

Her nose crinkled. "I don't know. Some sort of keepsake?"

"How about a locket?"

Her brain stalled. "A locket?"

He nodded.

"You're sure?"

Andrew grinned.

"Sarah, you should come out with us again."

"There's nothing out there for me. It wouldn't be the same. And not half as fun. There's no way we'd make the same sort of discovery or something better..."

She caught a flicker of annoyance in his face.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I forget archeology's not really your thing."

No, archeology wasn't her thing and never had been. She didn't want to disappoint him but the thought of digging up the dead now was upsetting.

She hadn't dreamed once since she had returned. For a month she'd fretted over the fate of the Admiral and the Lady. She'd torn them from the earth for nothing more than insatiable human curiosity. She hated to think their bones now lay in some sterile laboratory while slivers and slices were diced up for analysis. What if they were separated and lost to each other? Consigned to haunt some dusty university or museum until the Tanzanians sued for their repatriation. When she could no longer stand the weariness of constant concern, she'd thrown herself into every shift she could wrangle at work and numbed her mind with a diet of bad daytime television, the worse, the better.

She told her doctor she couldn't sleep and he keep prescribing pills. What she didn't tell him was she didn't want to sleep. Not anymore. Not if was going to remind her of what she couldn't have or couldn't fix.

"Renfrew's afraid to publish."

"Huh?" She shook her head trying to remember when the conversation had changed.

He stood. Their conversation was drawing to a close. "The lady and the admiral were everything you _don't_ want to find on a dig. Not really. Not if you just want to settle for a nice comfortable, cushy academic position."

She still didn't get it. She looked up at him helplessly.

"We found something else."

She rose. Hands on hips, she stared at him. "Well?"

He breathed in. "I'll tell you in Africa."

"What?" Her mouth fell in disbelief as she watched him excuse himself.

As he slipped through the door way he called back to her. "See you in Tanzania, Sarah."


	9. Chapter 9

The light in Africa was different – more mellow, golden.

Sarah shivered when she stepped from the bus, as though she was shaking off the chill of a year-long winter. She was a cold thing touched by a warm hand.

She took in the familiar scene. Renfrew's latest batch of newbies were in charge of pitching tents; volunteers were unpacking heavy crates from mud-crusted pick-ups. She thanked the bus driver who pulled her bags out and set them next to her.

A familiar figure appeared from behind the tents.

"Sarah!"

Renfrew loped her way before she could turn.

"Hey, Professor," she said, dropping her eyes. She didn't deserve his kindness; she'd ignored all but one of his phone calls. She'd nearly backed out of this trip at the last minute, reluctant to face this very moment.

Maybe that didn't matter to him.

"These your bags?" He swooped on her luggage. "I've set you up in your usual spot," he said, moving away without waiting for her reply. "I had to growl at a couple of students with designs on it. It's quite the desirable location this season. People seem to want a piece of your luck. That means stealing your tent presumably. By the way, seems you've made an impression on people. Your fans are dying to meet you – don't worry–" he must have seen her grimace, "I'm not expecting you to show up at the induction."

Every season started the same way. Volunteers, students and university staff assembled the night before the dig for introductions and to go over site rules. They usually followed it up with some embarrassing icebreaker games. In her second year, when the embers in the group bonfire were dying, Sarah had introduced her guitar. It had cemented her place in the group that year, and every year but last.

Last year she had purposefully cultivated a headache to get out of the evening. Had Renfrew noticed and remembered?

"I'll be at the induction, Professor," she said, feeling she owed him that much and resigning herself the torture.

Arriving at her tent, he rounded on her. "You will? Wonderful." He winked. "I'll try to make it as painless as possible."

Sarah watched him stride off to another tent. She shook her head. He seemed genuinely happy she was coming. He seemed genuinely happy she was here.

She didn't run into Andrew until dinner time. Communal meals were optional, but most people made use of the well-stocked mess tent. It wasn't like you could just head down to the local market for familiar fresh fruit and vegetables.

If she truly did have a fan-club, her identity hadn't been sprung yet. She knew some of the grad students from previous years and greeted them with small nods, but there were a number of new faces this year and she was as strange to them as they were to her.

She thought it odd Andrew hadn't sought her out yet. He had to be here already; he usually traveled with Renfrew. It didn't make sense that he would be trying to avoid her.

He wasn't.

His familiar face poked through the tent flap and his greeting was loud enough to make the other diners look up.

"Sarah! You made it!"

He grabbed her in a bear hug and she felt her cheeks flush.

"Hi," she said when he set her back on her feet.

"I knew you wouldn't miss this."

She wanted to pull the silly dangling bits on his hat; she resented his assuredness. She certainly hadn't been sure she'd make this season's dig, vacillating right up until her flight started boarding back in Toronto.

"You owe me an explanation," was all she could think to say.

Andrew grabbed her hand, pulling her to the serving trestle.

"It's a good one – but ... it can wait."

They ate dinner together outside, waving off tiny bugs between mouthfuls and enjoying the early sunset. Sarah tried to pry more out of Andrew but he was no more forthcoming than he had been in her living room two months ago. When he finished his meal, Andrew left to prepare the bonfire, the usual setting for Renfrew's introductions.

When the fire was roaring, Sarah made her way over to it.

Renfrew did his annual welcome speech, and identified Andrew and other key personnel. Sarah wasn't keen on cheesy mass introductions, but she stood up briefly and said hello when asked to. She didn't elaborate beyond saying this was her fifth season volunteering. She might have imagined it, but some of the people staring at her did seem unnaturally attentive. She kept her voice flat, ignored the faces and sat quickly. Renfrew went over the dig objectives and basic camp and dig rules.

He finished the formalities on a serious note.

"We've made some prominent discoveries at this site over the last few years. Sometimes those discoveries get noticed, sometimes they don't. Remember, every move you make on this site is important, every artifact, every bone, every spoonful of earth you dig, is important, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem."

As people started to mingle, Renfrew pushed his way to Sarah, where she sat half obscured from the flames. She rose to meet him. She opened her mouth but before she could begin, Renfrew was holding out a package. The glow of the fire reflected in iridescent paper.

"I wanted to make a bit more out of this but Andrew warned me you wouldn't appreciate a spectacle."

"What's this?" Sarah turned the parcel in her hands. It was weighty, most likely a book. She carefully peeled the tape from the edges. The paper fell away. Gold lettering was embossed on the cover: _The Garden of Eve: Exploring Lake Ndutu's Genetic Legacy_ by Laura R. Clarke.

"Laura's thesis," Renfrew said with pride.

Sarah turned stricken eyes on him. "How? She didn't-"

"She'd done the work, Sarah. It just needed editing. The board was unanimous in its decision to grant her a PhD posthumously."

Sarah bit her lip; Laura had never said anything about finishing her thesis. Sarah had forgotten it; once Laura started the treatment, Sarah had just assumed her university work was no longer a priority. Her stomach flip-flopped. How could she have missed the effort Laura must have put into completing this – her life's work? How could it have escaped her notice? Had she just tuned it out?

"She's still to be presented with her PhD." Renfrew grinned mischievously then pushed his glasses up his nose and assumed an innocent expression. "She always wanted you to get a degree."

The muscles in Sarah's cheeks ached as she fought an urge to cry. Her choked thanks didn't seem enough – she felt she was cheating the professor out of the magnitude of gratitude he deserved. As soon as his attention was drawn elsewhere, she escaped the tent and stumbled to her quarters.

She opened the book, marveling at the smell of new print and leather, and the crisp, sharp edges of thick leaves. She caught the edge of a camp chair suddenly when she saw the folded sheet of paper tucked between the cover and the first page.

Her hand trembled as she opened it.

Under the weak light of a tent lamp she made out familiar loops of esses and long-dashed tees.

_Dear Sarah_

_Renfrew must be keeping his end of the bargain. You wouldn't be reading this otherwise. Yes, I asked him to watch out for you. Yes, I know it was an imposition, and very cruel of me to play on my impending death just to get him to do it, but I don't care. Probably Renfrew doesn't either. He always did have a big heart._

_I haven't been blind. I've watched you moping about for a month. I can't be sure how much time I've got left. You don't want to face it, but I don't think I'll be here much longer and, you know me, I have to be prepared. I'm so, so sorry to be leaving you._

_I asked Renfrew to give you this letter with my thesis – whether I finished the damn thing or not. When you read these words and the words of my thesis (and you'd better!), know that this is me. Every time you read, I live. You'll find me in the dry descriptions of site procedures, in the diagrams of strata; you'll find me in the lines of analysis and comparison tables – just the way I've always found you in music._

_Ha! You secretly thought I was a talentless philistine in that department, didn't you? Did you never wonder why I'd always steal your mix CDs? I loved listening to the music you loved, sussing out what made you tick. Sometimes, it was the only method I had to interpret you. When you went through that gangsta rap phase I thought I'd have to stage an intervention. I couldn't work out what I was doing wrong to make you listen to that crap. Then I realized something._

_Whenever we were on the dig in Tanzania, I had a ritual. I was always up before you – remember? I'd start every morning with a run. I'd invite you, and you'd always mumble profanities and pull your pillow over your head (this isn't a rebuke, by the way – I accept and love that you are a crabby morning person). Sometimes I really, really wanted you to come; I just wanted you to see what I was seeing – to look over the dig, to see the colours in the dawn sky, to thrill at the excitement, to feel yourself be a part of history and prehistory – to uncover the millions of lives that passed before us. Every morning I'd run to the top of the hill and stop and breathe and just take it all in. It may be the closest I've ever come to believing in magic._

_I didn't make you get up. I learned the day we fought over you going to college (and you wouldn't talk to me for a month) I couldn't force you to be like me, or to like the things I like – but I'm telling you about the hill now because I'm trying to give you something to hold on to._

_I'll be honest, Sarah. Half of your music I hated. But I'd listen, and I'd think, and I'd try to hear it with your ears. And sometimes a miracle would occur and I'd understand just a little bit more about you – and then I'd love that song – because you loved it. If you haven't been up that hill, I hope this letter makes you go. I've got my doubts because sometimes, Sarah, let's face it, you can be a bit lazy when it comes to branching out. You don't need me to tell you where to go, but can I pull one more dying woman/dead woman maneuver? I would find you in music, Sarah; look for me in words, look for me in the things I loved, then look for me in the things you love – when you feel joy, know that's me feeling joy right alongside you._

_I miss Mom and Dad. I don't know what's going to happen to me and that's scary, Sarah – it's the truth. Perhaps I_ do _believe in reincarnation. I've loved my life and I've loved this world. All I could ask for is to be released to the life stream once again. Either way, by word or by molecule, this is how you have me forever, you have Mom and Dad forever, you have anyone whoever means anything to you forever._

_I wish this letter could go on forever_

_Love Laura_

A band around her skull tightened.

It was too soon. The wound still too new to be poked so ruthlessly. She hadn't heard Laura for more than a year, but here was her sister's voice shouting from the page.

She understood what Laura had written but it wasn't enough. They were _just_ words – and words, and music, and poetry, and lyrics, and melody, only left her feeling dead these days. They either raked up memories Sarah couldn't handle, or now left her cold when once they had power to make her heart race or slow. She didn't want Laura's words – not if she couldn't have her sister along with them.

The headache was too strong to ignore.

She hadn't finished unpacking before dinner; by the time she'd turned out her bags her clothes were piled on the ground sheet. Trust her to pack her medication at the bottom. With relief she put her hand on the plastic kit. She pulled off the lid and rifled for the strongest painkillers she could find.

But as her fingers popped the pills from their seal she was stricken.

Her decision to come this year had only been firmed when the final boarding call for her flight was announced and she knew she wanted desperately to dream again, wanted the chance to chase down her sister one more time, wanted the peace of knowing she hadn't destroyed other loves, other lives. She needed to see the lady and the admiral; she needed to know her actions hadn't been destructive. On top of the weight of grief, she now carried guilt as she shuddered with the thought she had betrayed the only people who might be able to help her.

With the last of her hope, she had boarded the plane.

Now the desire to numb the pounding in her head warred with her need to sleep naturally. With the latter there was more chance she would dream.

She gritted her teeth and poked thumbs into her temple to alleviate the throbbing. Curled on the bed, she squeezed tears and whimpered, keeping as still as possible to prevent unsettling her stomach.

_The jukebox is gone. It has been replaced with an open grave in the floorboards of the stage. She is alone, floating over the stalls, floating toward the hole._

_Its edges are so neat, floorboards dug with precision._

_Sarah peers down. She shudders and withdraws in horror. A tiny voice, quickly silenced, notes the incongruity of her volunteer responsibilities and her sudden abhorrence for desecrating this grave._

" _Please," she wants to cry. "Please come back! Please! I didn't do this! I didn't know!"_

_She can't cry. There's a binding about her throat and across her mouth and her voice is trapped._

_Water starts to gush from the bottom of the grave. It fills quickly, waves on surging over the lip. Sarah hears a roaring like pounding surf dashing itself against rocks. A cacophonous screech – like amped feedback on a mic – forces her to cover her ears until she begins to make out a chanted watery lament._

" _'These tears! I've cried a thousand oceans and if it seems I'm floating in the darkness, well, I can't believe that I would keep, keep! you from flying – and I would cry a thousand more if that's what it takes to sail you home.'"_

Sarah's hand slapped down on the pill packet before her eyes even had a chance to open.

That was it; her last chance, gone. They weren't coming back. None of them. They were lost to her. She was on her own and the last of her energy to care was gone.

Deadened.

Thank god she'd packed more than enough medication. It was the only way she'd get through the next six weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _1,000 Oceans_ by the inimitable Tori Amos.


	10. Chapter 10

Sarah settled into the dig mechanically. She had been assigned to Andrew's team. They were going to concentrate on the hilltop site again, but from the moment she stepped out her tent on the first morning she refused to look toward the hill.

She did not want to return. Her sister would not be there. Not really. Words were not enough, no matter what Laura had written. They were an unsatisfying substitute and a cruel reminder. The lady and the admiral were not up there either; she had seen to that.

Renfrew's brows knitted together when she requested another task on the dig. He seemed on the verge of asking her why but must have thought better of it. A detached voice in her head informed her he must have read Laura's letter.

Come to think of it: when _had_ he read the letter, she wondered. Was that why he'd sent her to the hilltop last year? Because of the letter? _Bastard._

Andrew dropped by at lunch. She was expecting him. She was expecting his interrogation. Instead, he crunched an apple and, in between chomps, brought up a topic she had forgotten – which was strange considering it was part of the reason she had decided to return this year.

"Renfrew doesn't know what to do with the data from your dig."

"Oh." She was listening to him – really she was - but why was his voice echoing as though through watery static? She looked at him, hands folded sedately in her lap.

Andrew looked at her strangely. "He's afraid to publish."

She nodded, remembering. "You mentioned it."

"He's afraid of being laughed out of academia – and you can understand why."

It wasn't hard to guess _that_ why – but _why_ did Andrew sound so far away? She answered him by rote. "He has doubts about the results."

He shook his head.

"There's just something about it, something strange – the site's almost too perfect. It's hard not to smell a rat. You call them the admiral and the lady," he said. It felt like an accusation.

"Just names."

He ummed. "Ever wonder where the admiral's ship is – so far from the sea?"

"You don't want to know what I think." The proverbial penny clattered in her own cold head. Yes. There was no way Andrew would want to hear her thoughts on the topic. She tipped her head back to gaze into the blue of the sky overhead. Let the archeologists work out their own theories. They needed a good challenge; this could have them guessing for years to come.

She wished she knew more of the couple's story, although – perhaps she already knew enough. Perhaps they had already told her everything she really needed to know. It didn't matter where they came from – to reach this place they'd traveled far and it hadn't been easy. They'd lost things that mattered to them, probably everything but each other. But they'd made it _here_ , and somehow they'd found what they were looking for. The eye of the storm, the admiral had called it. A place where he could be at peace even though he was hurting. And then she'd gone and wrenched them out of the ground. She'd lost everything too, and still she'd gone and ripped them up.

Andrew had continued without her noticing.

"You've been here for nearly a day and you haven't asked." His face scrunched in concern. She eyed him curiously, hearing the question he wasn't asking. Hazy memories from her living room returned.

Belatedly she realized he was expecting something more from her. "Oh," she said. "You said you found something else."

"We sure did. When you make it to the top of the hill, I'll show you," he said, eying her intently.

"No."

"No?"

"No." She stared at him. "You won't be showing me at the top of the hill. There's nothing there for me. If you have something to tell me, you will tell me here."

His consternation was obvious. This wasn't going the way he had planned. She waited as his confusion played out in the scrunch of his brows.

He said, "Hold out your hand."

She did.

He took a small box from his pocket, opened it, removed something and placed it in her hand. It was tiny. Her vision blurred as she looked at it.

"It's got no chain," she said stupidly.

"If it had a chain, the links were likely so fine they long gone. The locket itself was made of a more vulnerable metal alloy than the ring and the bracelet. Not as durable as gold or silver, but tough enough to wait a few thousands of years for a group of treasure hunters and dreamers."

She stared at her palm. He wanted her to say something – and a tiny part of her didn't want to disappointment him. "Does it...?"

"Open?" He looked sad. "It's hinge was destroyed long before we cleaned it – but the rims interlocked perfectly; it was sealed tight. The edges still nestle into each other but it's in two halves now."

She hooked a fingernail into the edge and saw he was right. The top popped off.

"Oh."

Curled in a tight circle was a lock of dark hair. She moved her palm into full light, and the lock burnt richly. It was auburn **-** like Laura's. Sarah sagged. The first feeling she'd had all day was like fist to the stomach.

"This-this shouldn't be."

"No, it shouldn't," Andrew said. "But it is."

She counted three of her own swallow breaths. "It's her hair, isn't it? The lady's."

"Essentially the DNA appears to strongly match for the partial DNA extracted from the tooth – only this find is better."

"Better."

"As in 'we-mapped-her-genome-sequence' better," he said quietly. He took a scrunched up piece of paper from his pocket. "Do have any idea how much you can tell about a person from that sort of data?"

She shook her head.

He proffered the paper.

Sarah's hands shook. An almost familiar auburn-haired, pale woman looked back at her; they hadn't made her cheeks full enough, but the eyes were perfect.

"DNA, cranial modeling ... science is a wonderful thing," Andrew said.

She stifled a whimper.

She was transfixed by the lock. When her brain couldn't take the solemnity anymore, it turned to the ludicrous. She let out a sharp laugh.

"No wonder the old man is scared. This'll be a field day for the crazies."

-o0o-

None of this was about her.

She made this realization as she worked that afternoon: not the dig, not the lady and the admiral, not Renfrew's troubles nor his kindness, not Andrew nor the discoveries of his science, not Laura's PhD, not the hilltop vista, not the people who'd give up their summers to be here.

None of it, she knew, had anything to do with her.

She couldn't say she was really focusing on anything as she went about the task of troweling layers of earth. As she worked, her thoughts flitted from one idyl to another. In the end they kept returning to the locket and to the difficulty facing Renfrew. And when she would stop and look up, trying to solve the problem she had created for the professor, she would stare at the others working diligently around her. They went about their business, married to their tasks. They cared about why they were here. They wanted to talk, they wanted to interact, they wanted to make discoveries.

If she didn't play along, she was spoiling the game for everyone. She didn't need the attention her mood inevitably drew and she didn't need the pitying look she had seen in another volunteer's eyes: pity and irritation.

So it was time to stop – or at least take back some control.

So that night she forced herself to join the others around the fire (those who hadn't gone off to the tourist town bar) and she made an effort to listen and reply appropriately with laughter and conversation when needed.

Because none of this was about her.

The muscles in her cheek ached from overuse; she felt a genuine spark of joy as she volunteered her own stories and inquired about others. When a grad student produced a ukulele, it ended up in Sarah's hands and Andrew who hadn't stopped smiling all night issued the inevitable challenge.

"Go on, smarty pants, play us a song." He grinned. "Laura used to boast her little sister could pick up any instrument and play."

Sarah quirked an eyebrow. "Everything but bagpipes," she murmured. She wasn't worried. Her fingers worked the frets as she guessed, teased and perfected chord shapes. Within minutes she was confident she knew enough for a debut.

"Any requests?" she said archly.

As the fire died down, her fingertips burned against the catgut strings; she hadn't played for months. She was fearless, trying everything they asked of her. She played their favorites, sometimes getting it right, sometimes failing hilariously.

When she knew she had done enough she handed the instrument back. She put a hand to her mouth to hide a yawn. When Andrew would have offered to guide her back, she thanked him, laughing and saying she was not helpless.

She took her leave gracefully.

The moon was full and as she wandered away from the fire its glow lit a path to her tent. Under her breath she hummed an old song, walking with a sway. Her thoughts and the melody led her to the admiral.

" _'Where'd you learn to be so strong? Every time you fall you know you bounce right back. With more determination every time; with more integrity every time. Oh it's got to be said - you came through for us more times than I could ever count.'"_

She gazed up at the moon. The stars and galaxy were magnificent - milky, spidery threads netting the sky. No wonder the admiral and lady had been happy here. She would never forgive herself for what she had done. She would try, but she would never be able to. She would not live a single day without regret.

" _'So thanks a lot. Don't you know that I will never forget? A true soldier committed to the cause in every way. Taking on the front line of our lives. Being there to give the good advice.'"_

Although she had done this terrible thing, she sensed the admiral and the lady were forgiving sort of folk. Like Laura's words though, it wouldn't help. They could forgive her; she just wouldn't be free of guilt.

" _'It's got to be repeated: you came through for us - more times than I could ever count.'"_

The lady had spoken to her. The lady had reached out in her dreams.

The lady _had_ spoken to her. And Sarah had done the unforgivable. She fought sudden tears as she thought about the grave on the stage. She knew what it meant. She knew Laura was lost to her, knew the admiral and the lady were gone.

Betrayal ... such a dirty word and much harder to take now she had a face to put to it. Yet, it didn't make sense – not entirely. Hadn't the lady told her to find the admiral? Didn't the lady know what she was going to do? Surely she must have known that Sarah was going to disturb her rest?

Was there some other reason Sarah was thinking about betrayal? Could she have possibly betrayed Laura as well? An image of the urn she always traveled with nudged itself into her mind. A sharp stab went through her gut.

_I've loved my life and I've loved this world. All I could ask for is to be released to the life stream once again._

She couldn't give her sister what she wanted.

Is that what this was really about?

_No! None of this is about me._

As she slipped into and then, moments later, out of her tent, she thought of the admiral and his daily vigil beside the lady's graveside.

_I'm not you. I am weak. We're not the same - you had some place: you had this place. You knew where she was._

She stumbled as she made her way up the hill; she pulled at the grass to hoist herself upwards. She wasn't on the track; her course was straight up. Even with the moonlight to guide her the bushes clawed at her feet, each step a new hand ready to pull her down, as if the earth itself protested her destination.

_Tell me it didn't hurt to get up every morning. Tell me it wasn't the easiest thing to get up in the morning and hate the sun. Tell me the effort of putting one foot after the other, day after day - until your shuffle up here wore a scar into the hillside - didn't have you begging for an early grave. Tell me it wasn't a relief when they finally put you down._

The admiral had been buried with a locket of the lady's hair – he had lived and been buried with tangible memories. In the end death had brought them together. Envy burned her chest. Death had been their solution.

This place was the eye of the storm; it was the lady's garden; somehow Laura knew it. Laura wanted her to climb the hill. Laura wanted her to be here.

At the top she gasped wildly.

Spent, she dropped to her knees.

She had no desire to be. She had no desire to pick herself up, no desire to put one leg before the other and scramble back down the hill, no desire to be here or anywhere now or tomorrow.

She had no desire.

She had nothing.

She did not want to be.

She wanted nothing but what was impossible.

She stared blearily at the tiny plastic container in her hand.

_What I want is impossible._

She tipped the bottle against her palm, hearing it rattle like a warning.

The ring was impossible, she remembered suddenly as she passed out.

-o0o-

_She hovers above the grave in the stage again. Water fills it to the lip, glassy and still. The stage is empty. She's alone. She cannot go up, she cannot go left or right; she cannot go out, cannot leave this place except by one exit._

_Knowing the way to go at last she lets go and crashes through the surface of the grave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Champion_ by Fly My Pretties.


	11. Chapter 11

_She splashes through the watery grave and right out the other side_ – _she's not drowning. She hears voices before she can work out where she is._

" _Are we doing the right thing?"_

" _Who said we were doing anything?"_

" _The river ... the boat – that's from you, right? That's what this is all about, isn't it?"_

_Sarah looks down. The planks she's hovering above aren't from the stage. They're pitching ever-so-gently. She's on a boat. It's cold where she is, cold and dark. She's hidden in shadow._

_She's not alone. Crazy relief floods her senses. The lady and the admiral stand parting sunshine at the rail._

_They're okay._

_She hasn't torn them apart or away from this land forever._

_The lady is speaking. "I'm not entirely sure – it's been a while since I've needed to come this way, if you'll remember."_

" _How can I forget?" the admiral says, his voice quiet. Heart-stopping._

_The lady gazes into his eyes. She puts her hands to his chest, alternately plucking at the buttons on his uniform and spreading her fingers across the fabric._

" _It's too easy to hurt and be hurt by the ones we love."_

_He takes her hand and kisses it. "We did sling a few arrows, didn't we?"_

_She snorts. "We were just being truthful – that's why it hurt; you were right – I was afraid my death would be meaningless, although mostly I was just afraid of it. What were you thinking of?"_

_They lean over and watch the water move as he considers._

" _So many things – random – things ... Starbuck, Kobol, the arrow. Maybe if you'd trusted me, told me everything..."_

" _Ha! That old chestnut. There was no way. Not you, not then," she says, laughing. "You weren't ready to trust me – and I wasn't ready to trust you. I told you: truth hurts. Besides–" She grins. "You staged a frakking coup and you had the gall to think I had something to apologize for."_

_The corners of his mouth quirk. "Now see how you command me." He takes a moment to regard her thoughtfully. "Hera."_

" _President's prerogative," she says smoothly._

_He taps the rail and his eyes narrow. "It took you forever to say you loved me."_

" _Oh, excuse me, Mr We-have-certain-responsibilities!"_

" _I made the first move," he says unrepentantly._

" _Yeah – on a dying woman – then you backtracked. You played the responsibility card."_

_Sarah can tell although this battleground has been well-worn, they're not angry. She wonders how long the war has been waged._

_The lady settles against the admiral's chest and gives a self-satisfied sigh. "Wasn't life a gas? Miss it?"_

" _Not the way I missed you."_

_They fall silent._

_The hum of the ferry slicing through waves fills the air._

_The lady sighs again. "What do you suppose is the point of all this?"_

_His brows go up. "You're asking me? I thought you knew. Mysticism was more your realm than mine."_

" _Mine? No. I just adopted the appearance of what seemed appropriate at the time. Oh, all right!" She spins in his arms to face him; her mock glare is withering. "Anything to wipe that Adama smugness off your face. It gave me some comfort, some direction – for a while."_

" _Until Earth."_

" _Until Earth."_

_She twists again, turning to look across the water._

_His arms tighten around her; his voice is low but Sarah can still hear his question."Do you ever wonder that maybe the prophecy wasn't important?"_

" _Hindsight - such a beautiful thing," the lady says drily."All that worrying, all those tears – I was wretched. What a waste of energy. The prophecy was going to see itself fulfilled. It didn't need me shepherding it."_

_She takes time to consider her next words."We gave ourselves up entirely. At the end it wasn't even about an act of faith, well maybe for Starbuck–"_

"– _It didn't require your – our – belief for it to be real. In the simplest terms, what happened happened not because we followed a prescribed course of action but because of who we already were."_

" _And look_ who _we were."_

_She considers. "Small, fearful ... defiant, brave."_

_In the silence that follows Sarah knows they are both remembering things that archeology can only dream at resurrecting._

_The admiral lifts his head. "We were worthy."_

" _Ah – but worthy by whose standards?"_

" _Our own – and that's all that ever mattered."_

" _And now here we are again."_

" _Is that what we're doing now? Proving ourselves worthy again? Saving ourselves again?" He sounds amused. "I'm not sure I see where we come into this."_

_She shakes her hands in frustration."I can't explain it all – I just know we doing something."_

" _Saving someone else? One of Hera's children? Only – if she's heading where I think she's heading we hardly seem necessary. Most people find this part fairly instinctive."_

" _How would you know? We compared notes – you never mentioned a river. Besides, as I said, I'm not too sure why we're really here. Or if we're really here. For all I know you and I are just figments." She takes his hand and laces her fingers through his. "Just simple figments."_

" _That would be a tidy explanation."_

_She nods. "Perhaps it would be for the best. I can't be too sure about anything but there's something going on. I think I have another message to pass on."_

" _And we have to go all the way to the end to deliver it?" There's no clue to explain why this should cause the admiral sadness. When he turns his head, Sarah sees unhappiness in his profile._

_The lady is not sad; she's smiling."Only to the end – it feels right."_

_He looks away. Sarah hears him murmur: "'_ Hope is the one thing we have never lost – though we are tired the old war.' _You know, I think that's why she chose us."_

_The lady waits._

" _'_ The same anger in our hearts, same desolation and loss.' _She and I, she and you – we share something."_

" _Which is?"_

" _Grief."_

_The lady's hand tightens around the admiral's."I wish I could take that away from you."_

" _I know you do ... but I don't regret it. Not now."_

_A pair of white birds swoop overhead; the lady and the admiral are momentarily distracted. When the birds have flown on, the lady speaks._

" _Is there something you can offer this girl?"_

" _I wouldn't say I had the answers – and I know of no cure for the pain. But you've already said it: love hurts. Grief is a measure of love. As long as I felt that pain, I knew I loved. The longer I had that pain, more that love was a comfort."_

_There is a heartbeat between his confession and the lady's response._

" _You have a good heart, William Adama."_

" _And you, Laura Roslin, have a strong heart."_

" _I know – it's yours."_

_They stand inseparable and silent, until the lady turns and stares into the shadow where Sarah waits._

" _We're nearly there. I think I sense her. I have to give her something."_

_For the first time Sarah feels the substance of her body in a dream. She feels a chill breeze push against her legs and the gentle motion of the ferry cutting through the water beneath them. She feels herself a part of the dream and she steps into the light._

_The lady holds out her hands. In her palms she is cupping tiny, tiny toy soldiers – and the soldiers are singing._

_Sarah can make out their tiny toy expressions. The soldiers are singing to her. One at the forefront waggles earnest eyebrows her way. She giggles and then gasps at the alien sensation – the gag from before has vanished._

"'I will come for you at night time, I will raise you from your sleep. I will kiss you in four places, I'll go running along your street,' _" he sings._

_She cocks her head. She knows these words – if only she could remember where she's heard them._

"'We may never meet again so shed your skin and let's get started. You will throw your arms around me.'"

_Sarah looks at the couple. In excitement she opens her mouth._

_The lady hushes her. "Listen: it's a message."_

" _From Laura?"_

_The lady's eyes widen and she nods slowly. "From Laura."_

"'So if you disappear out of the room, you know I will never say goodbye and though I try to forget it, you will make me call your name and I'll shout it to the blue summer sky.'"

_The admiral's hand on Sarah's shoulder draws her attention over the rail. The ferry surges forward, splitting the smooth surface and scattering ripples. Shapes – people – line the bank, at their backs intense sunlight obscures their faces. The shoreline is becoming more distinct. It is impossible. It is the hilltop. They are on a boat on a river, and the river flows toward the hilltop._

_The singing toys forgotten she dashes to the rail, her heart pounding painfully against her chest. Hungrily she searches the silhouettes, desperate for a familiar outline. And when features start to sharpen, there's barely any air left in her chest to gasp._

" _Laura?"_

_Her heart races and before she knows herself, the admiral is lifting her from the ferry and she feels her feet touch the ground and her sister's welcoming arms warm on her skin._

_She has no words._

_Even when her sister sets her back and inspects her, there's nothing she can say to express herself. Laura's eyes twinkle. The twinkle is mesmerizing. Sarah stares, not quite believing the form in front of her. Her sister's eyes; her hair; the shape of her face; her patented pose, hand on hip._

" _Hey, sis."_

_About them there are other reunions. She hears the admiral and the lady exchanging cheerful greetings. Some of these people turn curious and benevolent glances her way._

" _You came all this way just for me?" A smile stretches across Laura's face and she reaches out to hug Sarah again._

_Her embrace is strong and warm. The chill is gone from Sarah's bones._

" _You're here," she says, finding her voice. "Oh god – you're here, you're here." And the levee in her soul breaches. Words babble and gush, rushing forth in her need for release. "You were there and then you weren't and I didn't know where you'd gone. I can't remember anything. I can't remember saying goodbye. I don't know what happened and I wasn't prepared and when I woke up it was a nightmare and I couldn't remember if I said goodbye or not, and I wasn't sure if I even could have said goodbye and I–."_

_She breaks for breath, shuddering into her sister's shoulder, while Laura cradles and gently shushes her until her heartbeat stops its wild tattoo against her chest._

_Sarah is almost too afraid to open her eyes. Then she laughs and spoils the moment with a sisterly dig. "You were wrong! You were wrong about death!"_

_She can't stop her laughter when she sees the small flicker of amusement in her sister's glare._

" _Was I?"_

_Dazed, Sarah watches as the unknown people about them smile, wave and start to disintegrate. Their fingers, their hands, corners of skirts, pants, flaps of jackets dissolve into the wind, a mist swirling and humming and settling on the air until no-one is left and the atmosphere crackles with particles._

_Sarah doesn't know what to make of the vanished smiles._

" _Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, you are my heart now," Laura says._

_Sarah feels her stomach lurch and she holds her sister fast. She blinks back tears. She can't have come this far – for what – for this? She clutches at her sister, desperate to stop her too floating away._

" _No."_

_Laura's flesh stays solid._

" _Oh, for Christ's sake, Sarah." Sarah can't believe she's seeing Laura's annoyed big sister look again. She has no idea how her heart will survive the joy._

" _Look at them, Sarah. They still here. And they're happy. Are they happy because they're dead and they're here? I don't know. They don't know. For all I know, I'm just existing in your head right now and this is some elaborate response your imagination has come up with to kick your ass. Because it needed a damned good ass-kicking!"_

_Sarah crinkles her nose. "You're saying you're not real?"_

" _I'm saying no such thing. I'm saying there's no way of knowing. But–" and here Laura looks sly, "this isn't so bad, is it?"_

_For once, Sarah is not so sure Laura is right. Which is strange because Laura is usually right – but on this occasion, Sarah feels she feels somehow she might be able to prove this experience is real. And that would make Sarah right, and Laura kind of wrong, wouldn't it?_

_Right or wrong on that particular detail, Sarah is certain her sister is right about the other thing. She cannot see them, but she can still feel the presence of those vanished people. Squinting into the sunlight, Sarah realizes their presence is in the dust._

_Sarah lets go her sister and tentatively steps forward._

_Latent naughtiness, like the release of pent-up spirit, bubbles up through her soul. Like an untamed child, Sarah is overcome by a desire to do something joyful and right now a swirl of dust seems to be beckoning like a finger._

_This dream is inviting insanity and action._

" _Sarah?"_

_Her sister's warning is lost to the rush of her feet in the grass as she hurtles through the dust as though it were ducks in a park. It scatters and reforms and she runs at it again and again. When she doubles over she has no breath to gasp a laugh. It's a moment worthy of laughter – she's wheeling and careening on the hillside, playing with tag with ashes._

_Exhausted, she drops to her knees and her sister sits beside her._

" _Finished harassing the dead?"_

_At last, forcing herself, she fills her lungs with air._

" _This makes death look fun! It makes me look forward to–"_

_Laura's eyebrow arches._

" _It has its charms – but I'm glad you didn't need to sleep, Sarah."_

_Sarah's gaze drops. "You saw that?"_

" _I see everything I need to see."_

_Sarah mentally appraises this. She turns aghast eyes on her sister; Laura grins._

" _Don't look so concerned. No-one here cares if you scratch your butt or pick your nose."_

_Sarah's nose wrinkles."Gross."_

_It's impossible to tell if Laura is joking – her face is so straight ... until it isn't, and they fall on their backs in gales of laughter._

" _Just so we're clear – by 'sleep' you're euphemistically referring to the lethal dose of pills I've been hoarding for a year, aren't you?" Sarah knows this can't be avoided._

" _For you to get to that point – the point where you needed them – it means there's nothing left to hold on to; no earthly force strong enough to shelter or support you. It's heartbreaking – and it's hard to watch from the sidelines and feel so powerless."_

_Sarah chews on the thought. She thinks she understands her sister; she also thinks she wouldn't have understood a week ago but she can't say when or how the change came about._

" _Why am I here?" Sarah asks finally._

_Her sister rolls over and pokes her in the arm. "Only you can answer that."_

" _Do you think it's because I betrayed you? I couldn't do what you asked."_

" _I'm a little embarrassed to admit it but none of that matters, Sarah. Although gestures are lovely – and a great comfort, I'm sure – catering every whim of the dead isn't necessary for our eternal rest. Those aren't the kinds of ties the dead want with the living – well, not me anyway."_

" _Then what do you want from me?"_

" _That's easy. Just be. Just live as long as you can."_

_Their approach is so quiet Sarah doesn't realize they've been joined until she hears his voice._

" _I hope you listen to your sister."_

_Sarah tips her head back. The admiral stands with his arm about the lady's waist. He winks at Sarah and she scrambles to her feet, not knowing how, but knowing the lady and the admiral brought her here and she owes them her gratitude._

_She searches in vain for the right thing to say._

" _'Thank you' doesn't seem to cover it," she says helplessly. "I'm so grateful ... just so grateful."_

_Suddenly Laura is by Sarah's side, supporting her and the words Sarah has struggled to articulate flow._

" _You two were impossible," she says. "Professor Renfrew's tearing his hair out just trying to work out how you can be possible. I didn't think I could be anymore. I thought it was impossible that I could ever feel joy, feel anything anymore. But you were impossible – and I realized if you were impossible – but still here – other impossible things were possible too. You made this possible." She searches their faces for any sign her explanation makes any sort of sense._

" _You were a miracle," she finishes lamely._

" _Whatever we are isn't as important as what you are at the moment. One day we can talk further – we look forward to it. Until then..."_

_The admiral stretches forward his hand; unconsciously Sarah reaches to him. The tips of their fingers graze and as they do, the admiral and the lady start to resolve, tiny parts of themselves picked up by the breeze. Their smiles never die. The admiral's voice is strong, long after he has gone. "The living are the hearts of the dead, Sarah."_

_Sarah's time is almost up; she feels sadness but it's not enough to weigh her down anymore. Blindly she reaches for her sister's hand before the inevitable._

_Laura throws her arms around her one last time. "I'm glad you didn't need to sleep, Sarah. It's time to wake up now."_

_Sarah holds her breath as her sister slowly comes apart in her arms like soft, fraying electricity, and then it's over and she's alone on the hilltop in a swarm of warm light._

Sarah jolted upright.

Dawn was draping itself across the mountains in the east. The light was thick and warm but judging by the prickles on her skin the temperature had dropped at some point in the night. Funny – she hadn't felt the cold at all. A haze was already rising over the land – a shimmer of dust motes suspended in the air – like she had never left her dream.

She did not move. For minutes she sat, enraptured and, as she contemplated the landscape, she became aware of a change – a comfortable breeze starting to move in the trees halfway down the hillside.

A early morning whistle carried to her and her lips curled in a tiny smile. A beanie appeared over the brow of the hill. The head filling the hat and the body accompanying it appeared. Andrew's mouth opened when he saw her.

"Sarah?" She saw him scan the area. "Did you sleep here?"

Her grin died when she saw his horrified gaze. The hand he had started to extend froze. He was staring at the tiny plastic container that had fallen from her lap hours ago. Tiny white things scattered in the grass like rice.

"What's going on, Sarah?"

She fought her embarrassment and, grimacing, forced herself to stare straight into his eyes.

"This looks bad, doesn't it?"

"Sarah..."

She pushed herself onto her feet. Her words would mean nothing today; today would be about action.

"How much time have we got before the others get here?"

"I don't know – ten, fifteen minutes. I'm up early _–_ "

"Ten or fifteen minutes? Right. I have something important to do, and I think you – and the Professor – should be here when I do it. Can you go get him?"

"Who? The Professor? Sarah, what's going–"

"Of course the Professor, dumbass. Who else? Just get him up here."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" He nudged the vial in the grass with his foot like he was reluctant to get any closer to it.

"Oh," she said. She stooped and picked it up. Half its contents had spilled, the rest she tipped into the palm of her hand.

"Watch this," she said. She took aim and hurled the handful out over the slope of the hill. She loved the pain as her arm arched, the strain against her chest as the pills went flying. Adrenalin like freedom raced through her body. She felt like cheering.

She pocketed the container and dusted off her hands. "Littering. Poor form, you know." Then she spun about and took off down the hill, not there to laugh at the shocked expression on his face.

Andrew didn't fail her. She was already at the top of the hill waiting for him when he appeared with the Professor.

When she tried to speak, words stuck in her mouth. She had wanted desperately not to tear up, wanted this moment to be about a joy of sorts. Before either man could ask her what was wrong she held out the urn.

Understanding dawned on Renfrew, and he moved to spare her the discomfort of explaining herself. He looked out over the plateau and nodded. "This is the perfect place, Sarah. I think Laura would approve."

Of course, she couldn't say that Laura might not actually care now. Not the Laura who had spoken to her in her dream. And what Laura had wanted wasn't the point – that was what her sister, and the admiral and the lady ... Laura? ... had been trying to tell her.

_This is about me._

"I didn't think I'd ever be able to do this," Sarah said. "Laura had this thing about recycling–"

Andrew patted the professor's back as he choked and wiped his eyes.

"–But the idea of letting her go just seemed ... impossible. Until – I don't know – I woke up this morning. I woke up this morning. And I knew it was the right thing to do. And since you were two of her best friends, I thought..."

She trailed off, suddenly shy, out of practice at wearing her heart on her sleeve.

They didn't leave her hanging. Renfrew sniffed and surreptitiously raised his glasses to wipe an eye.

"Thank you, Sarah. It means a lot to me..."

She had underestimated the old man's affection for her sister.

They stood where the hillside fell away steepest. The sun was just appearing over the mountains and cast a brilliant pink glow over the vast plateau. Sarah took the cap of the urn and they scattered Laura's ashes, watching as the breeze carried her sister out over the landscape she had loved.

They lingered, each silent in their thoughts, until the Professor hugged Sarah and took his leave. Andrew and Sarah remained. The way he fidgeted with the tassels on his beanie, Sarah got the impression he wanted to say something.

She nudged him with her elbow. "Penny?"

He wouldn't look at her; she wondered if he was still upset about the way he found her this morning.

"Something happened last night, didn't it?" he said.

"Yeah." She wouldn't lie – she just wouldn't say any more than that. Not yet.

"You think you'll tell me one day?"

She sized him up, then yawned. "Maybe – when you're ready. In the meantime, I could really do with a coffee and a change of clothes," she said, pulling at her t-shirt and grimacing.

Andrew grinned. "Hell, I forgot what you're like without your morning caffeine shot." They turned to head down the hill.

"Andrew? I really am okay. I'm sorry if– "

"You have nothing to apologize for," he said. "I'm just glad you're going to be okay. Nothing else matters."

They started down the slope just as the hilltop volunteers began appearing ready for a new day on the dig.

"We'll be up shortly," Andrew said in response to the curious looks they were getting. He turned to Sarah. "That is – I take it we'll be up?"

She reached out and, taking his hand firmly in her own, she squeezed. "Just try to keep me away."

-o0o-

_Sarah doesn't know it but Laura Roslin and Laura Clarke are taking a moment to observe their handiwork._

_She doesn't know they are listening intently as she asks Andrew Ndiaye about a song on his iPod, doesn't know Laura Roslin and Laura Clarke are giggling as they hold tiny toy soldiers in their hands and listen to these soldiers sing themselves silly._

" _But – really – what do the words mean?" The older Laura says when she has brought her laughter under control. '_ We may never met again, so shed your skin and let's get started?' _That paints a ridiculous image in my head." She misses the baleful look on the face of the tiny lead soldier._

_The younger Laura, who bears a very coincidental, passing resemblance to her companion, does not miss the expression and lets loose another giggle._

" _You know something. I don't even know this song. You're saying this was a message for Sarah? From me? I don't see how that could be."_

_They look at each other._

" _Well, if it wasn't from you, then who...?"_

_Andrew and Sarah have gone on ahead but the echo of their voices rises up the hillside; twin smiles appear on the Lauras' faces._

"Yeah you will throw your arms around me – oh yeah..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hunters and Collectors sing the beautiful _Throw Your Arms Around Me_.
> 
> I've no plans for a sequel; this was written with very specific themes and goals in mind. I do have a wee snigger when I think about Adama's raptor (the thought had occurred to me); a story about its discovery would very definitely have to be a comedy.
> 
> I like to think Sarah and Andrew have no idea how close they were to the most awesomest archaeological find ever, but it's probably best some of these things stay hidden. The admiral and lady are enough to upset the academic world for a while ... (I'm such an academic wuss I'm just glad I'm not in Renfrew's position).


End file.
